Jump In the Fire
by Gertrude-04
Summary: Sam and Dean struggle to iron out the kinks in their relationship in the aftereffects of Ellicott's control. Rated for language, and imagery in later chapters. Chapter Two up.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is my very first Supernatural story, so please be kind. I've fallen in love with the show, more specifically, Dean Winchester. So you can understand that anything I write about the show will be focused on him. Anyways, I love feedback, in any form. I haven't seen all the episodes, so if anything is out of character, please let me know.

* * *

The night is one of the more beautiful I have seen, a million pin prick stars lighting up the dark sky already brightened by the full moon. In the flat, almost prairie like lands of Montana, the road seems to stretch on forever, continuing towards a horizon that could never be reached. Sam is asleep in the seat next to me, face pressed against the window and snoring softly, fogging up the glass with every exhale. Given the amount of nightmares the kid had been through in the past week, the sound of his undisturbed sleep was a relieving one, even if it took away from my own slumber.

I glance at the clock set into the dash of the Impala, and sigh quietly. I should stop. I know I should stop. But the measly twenty-three dollars that remain in my back pocket isn't nearly enough to rent a motel room, even by the somewhat skuzzy standards of the area. And I just don't feel like sleeping in the drivers seat again. There is a tent, and a couple of sleeping bags tucked away in the truck, but that will mean alerting Sam. He doesn't yet know how bad things are getting, and I'm not really inclined to tell him. He has enough trouble sleeping as is. I don't feel like adding more to his worries.

He shifts in the seat, whines a little in his sleep, but relaxes soon after without another sound. I reach out to pat his shoulder lightly, but my hand floats hesitantly above his back. I tell myself I don't follow through because I don't want to wake him up, but my sub-conscious knows there's more to it than that. My hand takes its place on the steering wheel once more.

I sigh again, and turn back to the road. I need to find a bar, a club, even a motel. Any place there might be some heavy gambling going on, but as flat as the landscape is, I can see that there aren't any buildings for miles. Not even a fucking gas station. I've got about a quarter tank of gas left, but that can only go so far if we have to drive forever to find a refill.

I glance over at Sam again, and worry my lower lip with my teeth. He's been acting a little weird ever since…well, ever since he shot me. The memories come rushing back at the mere mental mention of the Asylum incident. My hand sub-consciously moves to my chest, gently pressing on still fiery sore muscles and skin. I never knew how painful rock salt could be, but it's not a lesson I'm likely to forget.

I know I'll never forget the look on Sam's face when he leveled my own gun at me. I was an idiot for tossing it to him, regardless of the fact that it wasn't loaded. I knew then, and I know now, that Sam wasn't in total control of his actions. But I guess there's a part of me that was…hoping, or maybe trusting would be a better word, that his brotherly feelings would be enough to override Ellicott's control. Huh. A little ironic that when I'm normally allergic to chick-flick moments, here I was praying for one.

But all I managed to do was set my little brother up for another lifetime's worth of guilt-enforced nightmares. I hadn't overlooked the fact that my name had replaced Jessica's, crying out in his sleep thickened voice as he writhes and thrashes about on his bed. I'm sure it's me he's picturing every night, dying a horrible death from his own hand. And it's my fault for putting the imagery there. My hand comes off the steering wheel to scrub at my grainy eyes. I wonder if it's an engrained talent of mine, or just coincidence that I keep setting the stage for people to leave me.

"You want me to drive for a while?"

My hand drops from my face in an instant, and I straighten a little in my seat. Sam is still leaning sleepily against the door, but his gaze is clear, and focused on me. His brief nap seems to have bolstered him, but he still looks like hell. The bags under his eyes have bags under _their _eyes.

I just shake my head, and try not to imagine how long he's been watching me.

"Dean, we need to pull over. You look like shit." He sits up a little taller in the bucket seat, as if preparing himself for the inevitable argument.

I turn back to the road, and clench my jaw against the sarcastic words that want to come out. Sam has made it clear he doesn't want to have anything to do with my illicit money gathering schemes; I just take that a step further to mean he doesn't want to know when my illegal skills are needed. I don't say anything about how bad we'll look if we starve to death when the Impala runs out of gas.

Sam sighs exasperatedly. "You know you're not the only one here, right? You're older, but that doesn't mean you can't lean on me sometimes."

I roll my eyes at him, always going for the sarcastic response. "I want to drive, Sam. It's my fucking car. You don't have to go all girly on me."

"I'm not 'going all girly!'" He turns in his seat, facing me, and tucks one leg up underneath him. His hands are clenched into fists on his thighs. "You can't do this yourself. You must at least know that, since you came and got me. Why is it so hard for you to accept my help when there isn't something to kill?"

I shift uncomfortably in the seat, and the movement pulls on still healing chest wounds. I grimace, scrub again at my face with one hand. I don't want to do this again. Sore and painful muscles, combined with no sleep, and very little to eat, shorten my fuse exponentially. To get into it with Sam again is only going to make things worse. But the tension in the car is nearly palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife, and it seems an argument is forthcoming, whether I like or not. So I opt for the pussy way out.

I drop my hand back onto the steering wheel. "Look, Sam, can we not do this now? Driving relaxes me. That's really all there is to it, okay?"

He's still watching me suspiciously; I can see him staring at me out of the corner of his eye. I make a point of relaxing my shoulders, settling the tension in my face. He watches me for a few more minutes, which I pretend not to notice, before shrugging and turning back to the window.

As soon as I can see the back of his head, I glance worriedly at the gas gauge. The indicator is just a sliver below a quarter tank; it's moved since I last looked at it.

Sam has fallen into silence; I can't tell if it's a sulking silence, pissed that for once, I didn't want to pick a fight, or if maybe he's just tired of bothering. I don't really care to find out. But then he sits a little higher in his seat, and reaches out to grab my arm with one hand.

"Dean, do you see that?"

Adrenaline courses through my veins at his words. He's pointing out his window to something on the side of the road, and for a long minute I don't see anything. My eyes have adjusted to the crescent of light the headlights provide, and they don't adjust immediately to the shift to darkness. I let up on the gas pedal, and the speedometer quickly falls below twenty miles an hour.

"Right there, on the shoulder." Sam continues to point, and I continue to see nothing. But then, when I pull over off the two-lane blacktop, I see it. A twin set of white lights, about two feet off the ground, maybe fifteen feet away from the front bumper. As I roll to a stop, the headlights wash over the source of the lights, and illuminate a dog. A mangy, thin looking German Shepard type thing. I realize the spots Sam had seen, and convinced me had something to do with the supernatural, is just the eye shine of a lost dog.

"For fuck's sake, Sam! It's just a dog!" I slam my hands against the steering wheel, irritated that he got me so worked up over a simple canine. But he just looks at me like I'm an idiot, like he knew it was a dog all along. Then before I can come up with some sarcastic response, he's opening the door and levering himself out.

"Sammy, wait!"

Although we've survived more than our fair share of other-worldly events, and we've been damn lucky at it, my mind immediately flashes to something that seems almost worse in comparison; death by rabies.

Sam is already approaching the dog when I finally pull my broken body out of the car. He's walking towards it, one hand outstretched in a placating manner, speaking soft and comforting words that I can't quite make out.

"Sam, are you crazy?" I hiss at him. I want to keep my distance; I don't trust stray dogs anymore than I would a werewolf, but every brotherly instinct I have is screaming at me to get between my brother and this animal.

He doesn't even turn his head to look at me, just flashes me the finger with his spare hand, the one hanging by his side and not offering itself as a hot meal to this obviously starving dog.

I contemplate running to the trunk, grabbing a gun, and shooting this poor animal dead before he has a chance to hurt my brother. Then I take it a step further, and think maybe it would be better to shoot Sam. Better the evil you know, than one you don't, right? Then maybe he wouldn't be so quick to jump into bad situations next time. But then all my thought processes up to this point become moot, because Sam has reached the dog.

He lowers himself into a crouch, probably so he appears less threatening. What he doesn't realize is that even when he's crouched, he still has a good foot, maybe a foot and a half on the animal. He stretches his hand out towards the snout of this thing, all the while keeping up with the litany of softly spoken, useless words that I don't have a shot of hearing.

The dog takes his sweet time checking Sam out, trying to decide whether or not he is a good guy, as Sam undoubtedly claims. After what seems like a lifetime, the dog puts his head down, and licks Sam's hand quickly. The resulting grin that comes across my brother's face threatens to break it in half.

"See, Dean? No problem!"

I just roll my eyes at him. He acts like he's a genius, like it was anything but luck that kept him from getting his hand bitten off. He slides his fingers from underneath the dog's chin to scratch the top of its head.

I take a few steps closer, intending to get Sam to get his ass moving, but the dog suddenly wrenches its head away from my brother, and fixes me with an unrelenting stare. My feet stop moving under the intensity of its gaze, and I wonder if maybe it isn't really a dog, but something more…up our alley. Sam says something to me, but his words are like white noise in my ears. My world has shrunken down, thinning to a strange kind of tunnel vision. The only things I see are the dog's eyes. I feel as if maybe it's looking at more than just my face, that it can see through my eyes and into my soul. But then just as suddenly as it came up, the moment is gone. The world flares up around me again, and the dog lopes over and pushes his nose into my hand.

"Dean? What the hell was that?" Sam is staring at me incredulously, and I get the feeling that he's been calling my name for a while. I look down at the dog that is still staring up at me. This time his attention is more like that of an innocent animal, and as I watch, his tongue lolls out of his mouth, and he starts panting.

"I …don't know." Sammy looks at me like I've sprouted another head. I feel entirely too uncomfortable with the attention of both him, and this dog that still hasn't looked away from me. "Let's…uh…just go, okay?"

I turn away from the Shepard, walk hurriedly to the car, and hope like hell that Sam is going to pick this time to be a loyal, order-heeding little brother. Of course, that's far too much to ask for me.

"Dean, wait a minute!" He returns to his side of the car, and lays his hands on the roof. "Look at this place. He's not going to last long out here. And he already looks in really bad shape."

"We're not a fucking animal shelter, Sam! It's not my responsibility to make sure someone's lost pet gets fed. Get in the damn car!"

I pull open the drivers door, maybe with a little more force than is strictly necessary. But before I can lower myself into the seat, the damn dog slips in behind me, and jumps into the backseat.

"Oh, fuck no!" I move to the back and wrench open that door. The dog has made itself comfortable in the middle of the backseat, making it remarkably hard for me to reach him, what with the chest injuries and all.

"Looks like he's made himself at home," Sam says with a laugh, from the other side of the car.

Without responding, I glare at the smiling face of the Shepard. I really, really, don't want to deal with this right now. I don't want to think about Sam, or this dog, or how much money I have left in my back pocket. I just want to hide under some blankets and sleep for a century. Is that really too much to ask? I stack my arms on the hood of the car, and rest my forehead on them.

"Please, Sam. Just get rid of him. I really don't want to deal with this right now."

I guess maybe he hears something in my voice; something that he knows doesn't belong. I can't hear it myself, but Sam's always been better at reading me than I am at reading myself.

He comes around to my side of the car, rests one elbow on the hood of the car, and one hand on my shoulder. "Dean? Are you all right?"

All I can do is snort. It's just such a loaded question. How do I tell my baby brother that the gunshot wound on my chest, the one he caused, mind you, feels like a real one, instead of being inflicted by some stupid rock salt? How do I tell him that we have nearly no money left, and with no sign of civilization anywhere, very little chance of getting any? How do I tell him that I lie awake for hours after he's fallen asleep, worrying about how I'm going to keep him safe, and in a relatively good frame of mind, while still subjecting him to the lifestyle he hated enough to turn his back on his family?

I'm not very eloquent, though, so all that comes out is, "I'm tired, Sammy. And you are in my personal space like no one but a hot blond should be. Just get the fucking dog out of the car so we can leave."

Sometimes I hate myself for not being able to connect with my brother on a level that he needs. Other times, I hate my brother for making me feel so inadequate. Today, though, I hate the both of us, plus the dog in the back seat, the asshole in the last county who didn't cough up any dough despite the fact that we saved his business from an angry spirit, and my parents for bringing me into the world and then leaving me on my own to take care of Sam.

Sam just shakes his head, as if he actually thought we might have some kind of a moment here, on the side of the road in the dark. He starts to bend over, and reach inside the car, but then it seems as if something occurs to him, because he straightens back up.

"Wait, Dean. It might be a good idea to have a dog around. It's been proven that they can sense spirits, and other forms of the supernatural."

"Sam, I'm really not in the mood for this. We have equipment. We don't need a dog."

"But what if the equipment fails? He'll be like a safety net."

I try to tell myself that he's not trying to be irritating. He just doesn't know everything about the situation. A dog is another mouth to feed, and in a time when I'm having enough trouble getting our own meals, dog food is going to be tricky to come by.

"Come on. Don't tell me a part of you doesn't want this. We've wanted a dog since we were kids."

I lift my head up from my arms to glare at him. "No, Sammy. You've wanted a dog since we were kids. I just wanted you to stop complaining." My words are supposed to make him angry, but instead he just half-smiles. I think he's starting to remember how to translate 'Dean-speak.' He's always been pretty good at looking _behind _what I am saying to what I truly mean, but can't voice. "Who is going to feed him? And walk him? And what if he gets hurt? I know enough first-aid for the two of us, but I know shit all about dogs."

"I'll take care of it. You won't have to worry about a thing."

I really, really don't want to say yes. But there's something in Sam's face, an expression of excitement I haven't seen in a long time, at least since Jessica died. I can't believe I'm thinking this, actually considering it, but if keeping that dog picks him up out of the funk he's been in the past few weeks, it might just be a good idea. And if I'm going to agree with this, Sam has to know how hard it's going to be. I take a breath, and try to channel some normal sibling sentimentality to make this a little easier.

"We don't have a lot of money, Sammy. The guy from the last job didn't pay anything, we've got a quarter of a tank left of gas, and I only have twenty-three dollars to my name. Okay? If the situation were different, I'd say fuck yeah, keep the dog. But I don't really feel like sacrificing your meals to give them to a stray animal."

Sam doesn't say anything right away. He's looking at me a little strangely, with his eyebrows raised in surprise and his mouth sort of hanging open. I'm beginning to wonder if maybe I'm sprouting another head when he smiles a little.

"What? What are you smiling at?"

His expression only grows brighter. "You were honest with me. Outside of hunting, when your life depended on it, I don't think that's ever happened."

I roll my eyes at him, and give him a shove. "Shut the hell up. I'm always honest with you."

He snorts sarcastic laughter, but thankfully doesn't begin to list his evidence to the contrary. "Dean, stop thinking you have to support me through all this. I'm not seven anymore."

"Coulda fooled me," I mumble under my breath, as he sits down in the back seat next to this dog, which throughout this whole time has still been sitting like it belongs there.

"I heard that!" Sam calls out, but there's no real vehemence in his tone. "Don't worry about the money. I do have some of my own you know."

He thrusts his hand out of the open door, in which he is holding his wallet. I take it from him, shooting a look into the darkened back seat, which he of course ignores. I flip open his wallet.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

In the side compartment of the black leather wallet, Sam has a number of bills stuffed into a neat pile. I pull out one at random, squinting in the darkness to make out the $100 symbol in the top right corner. "You're kidding me, right? Here I am losing sleep, worrying about how I'm going to feed your scrawny ass, and you've been holding out on me?"

This time, his head appears in the doorway. "You're doing it again, Dean. All this honesty has to be doing something to your aversion chick flick moments."

He slides back out of the backseat, and straightens up before me.

"Where did you get this money?"

He shrugs a little bit, shoves his hands into his pockets, and manages to look fairly uncomfortable. "It's left over from school."

And then I realize rather quickly why he wouldn't want to tell me. To my brother, who tries to see and make connections in every avenue of his existence, this money would be his last, desperate link to the normal life he craves. Maybe by giving it to me, or spending it on weapons, or ammunition or something relating to the supernatural, he would be giving the remainder of himself over to the world he hates so much.

I close his wallet with a snap, and hand it back over to him. He's looking at me like he expects me to say something, but I have no idea what that might be. I'm frustratingly clueless when it comes to this emotional crap.

I settle with a simple shrug, and toss over my shoulder, "It's your money, dude. If you want to spend it on a dog, that's your choice."

I start up the Impala, and only have to a wait a few seconds before Sam closes the back door, and runs around to the passenger side. He doesn't say anything when he sits down, but the air in the car feels lighter, a lot less tense than before we stopped. The dog is staring at me through the rear view mirror. I reach up and adjust the mirror until I can't see it anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: This chapter's dedicated to my best friend, Spike. The best dog in the history of dogs. I'll never forget him, and I'll never stop missing him.

* * *

After another hour of driving down the same road, looking at the same damn scenery on either side, Sam offers to part with some of his hard earned scholarship money to put up for a motel room. Naturally, I put in the token protest, but I'm just too fucking tired to really get into it. At this point, I'd pretty much take sleep in any bed in any room bought any way, even if it is my kid brother's school money. I pull into the soonest Motel 6 with a vacancy sign we come across.

"I'll check us in," Sam says, when I stop the car with a lurch and his words are like music to my ears. He's grabbed his wallet out of the glove compartment, and is on his way to the office before I've even shut off the car. I slip the keys into the pocket of my leather jacket, and lean my head back on the headrest.

I don't think I've ever been more tired in my life. I feel boneless; my skeletal structure, tendons and ligaments have turned to jell-o. I know that when Sam comes back with a room key, I'm going to be hard-pressed to get up out of this seat.

There's a shifting noise from the back seat, a sort of squeak on the leather, and I remember suddenly that the dog is still there. I've been driving without a rearview mirror since we picked it up, but not being able to see the dog staring at me has done nothing for my comfort level. I swear I could feel its eyes on me, before it finally curled up against the passenger side door and fell asleep. It all makes me wonder if all these years on the road have finally led me to go bug shagging crazy. I'm pretty sure paranoia is a symptom of insanity.

There's a knock on my window, which makes me jump a little higher than I'd like. I didn't think Sam would be so quick to get us a room, seeing how it's 2:30 in the morning, but there's his face in the window, dangling a single key from one finger.

He moves to the backseat, opens the door and lets the dog jump out onto the pavement. I worry for a couple of heartbeats that he's going to run into traffic, and get himself killed, then I wonder why I care.

I lock the driver's side door, then move back to the trunk to get our stuff. Sam's taking the dog to the last door on the right hand side of the single story motel, apparently trusting that I'll grab his bag as well as my own. I don't disappoint.

The door is left open, and when I step inside of the room that appears to be standard around the country, I realize why I didn't want to see that dog get crushed by a speeding vehicle. Sam is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, the mangy mutt sitting about a foot in front of him. My brother is poring extensively through the dog's hair, inspecting cuts and scrapes and scars with a kind of intensity and concentration that I don't see in him unless there's something to be killed. No matter how much I dislike the idea of having something else to care for, so far it seems as if this animal has done nothing but good for Sam in the small amount of time we've had it.

I toss his duffel onto the bed farthest from the door, and take the nearest one for my own. Maybe it's a little paranoid, but I always prefer to sleep closest to the exit. If Sam notices, he doesn't say anything.

"You wanna hurry up and get in the shower?" Sam says. He seems to find something he doesn't like on the dog's body, as his brow furrows and his lips press into a thin line. "I want to get this guy a bath before he gets in bed."

I run that line through my head once or twice before jumping on it. "What the hell do you mean, 'before he gets in bed'? It's a dog, Sam. Not your first born."

Sam rolls his eyes, and when he replies, he doesn't even look at me. "You think he's going to stay on the floor when there are two comfortable beds to sleep on? I sure as hell wouldn't."

"You're a person, Sammy. That's a dog. I don't see you licking your crotch in public either." I slide out of my jacket, and throw it over the back of the room's only armchair. "I don't really care, bro. Whatever you decide to do, do it quietly." I flop down on the comforter, and I'm asleep before I hear his response.

* * *

When I wake up sometime later, the room is dark expect for the light from cars driving on the highway filtering in through the closed curtains. I prop myself up on my elbows, frowning a bit, and wondering what woke me. I know I fell asleep with my boots on, but I'm not wearing them now and I can see them lined up just inside the door.

Sam's soft snoring is the only sound in the room. I'm not exactly a deep sleeper, but it generally takes more than his midnight breathing to rouse me. I swing around on my bed, and plant my feet on the floor, grimacing at the dull ache in my chest.

It's been three days since the asylum job, three days since Sam shot me with my own shotgun. Although it's not nearly as painful as it was that first night, the wounds on my chest do seem to be taking their time healing. There's not much that can be done for heavy bruising and what might very well be cracked ribs. My only hope for relief in the next week or two is ibuprofen.

I glance over at Sam's bed again, when it hits me with a start. The reason why I woke up, curled up next to my brother on the bed; that damn dog is staring at me again. It looks comfortable, its back pressed up against Sam's, a slight depression in the pillow next to my brother's head where it must've rested it's own. Although this dog has already done good things for Sam, I nonetheless feel like an idiot for allowing it into his life without knowing everything about it. The idea of it sleeping next to my brother gives me a slight case of willies.

I put the dog out of my mind and grab the first-aid kit on my way to the bathroom. I wait until the door's shut and locked behind me before I turn on the light.

I've been wearing the same shirt since I changed three nights ago; it's getting a little ripe but it's the only button-up I have, and I don't really feel like struggling with a t-shirt every time I have to change the bandages. I shrug out of the shirt, and hang it up on the doorknob.

Looking into the mirror, I have to bite back a string of courses that would definitely wake my brother. It might be feeling better, but it definitely looks worse. The bruising has darkened, the worst of it in a mottled area covering my sternum where I took the brunt of the shotgun blast. The rest of my body is a roadmap of scrapes, bruises and cuts.

My chest is relatively easy to look after, apply ointments, change bandages, and check the bruising. But I haven't even looked at my back yet, and if the intense discomfort I've been feeling is anything to go by, I probably should. Unfortunately, I don't yet have eyes in the back of my head, and I'm sure as hell not going to ask Sam to do it. I can already taste his guilt as is.

I apply some antibacterial ointment to some of the deeper cuts, then shrug back into my shirt. There's not much that can be done for the bruising, so I shake a couple of ibuprofen into my palm and dry swallow them. I pack up the first aid kit, but leave it out on the counter. I'm probably going to need it again in the morning.

When I turn out the light, and slip out of the bathroom, Sam's awake, sitting up in bed and staring at me.

"You okay?"

"Fine, man. Can't a guy take a piss without getting the third degree?"

Sam rolls his eyes so dramatically I can almost hear it. "And you call me a bitch. Touchy much?"

I somehow manage to keep from telling him that the reason I was up at all was because he shot me. Naturally, the dog's staring at me again, but at this point I've had enough practice ignoring it that I don't even bat an eye.

I lower myself carefully into bed, turn away from Sam towards the window. Although I would never admit it under penalty of death, it worries me to think that things between Sam and I might never go back to normal. Of course, in our family, normal is a relative term. But since the asylum, hell, before that, if I'm honest with myself, there's been a tension between us that never before existed.

"Dean?"

If the uncharacteristically timid tone he's using is anything to go by, Sam senses it as well. I feel like we're on the verge of a discussion of feelings, and emotions, and deeply hidden fears, and it's all a little Dr. Phil for me. I slide one hand underneath my pillow, and tuck my knees a little closer to my chest.

"Good night, Sam," I say, hoping he'll get the hint and not push the subject any further. There's a moment of silence, then I hear him sigh.

"Good night, Dean."

* * *

I wake up in the morning to the smell of pancakes.

My stomach lets out a growl worthy of a werewolf before I've even sat up. The room is dark, but I can see sunlight from in between the cracks in the curtains. Sam is standing at the room's only table, rifling through two open paper bags. The dog is sitting at his feet, staring up with great interest at the rustling sound.

"I picked up breakfast. You hungry?"

"Hell yeah." I kick the rest of the covers off, and stand slowly, wincing as sore muscles pull and pop. The ibuprofen seems to have done the trick. I slept without interruption for the remainder of the night and from the looks of the daylight outside, most of the morning. I notice Sam watching me out of the corner of his eye, and make a point to look as painless as if I was hopped up on morphine.

"What have you got?"

He reaches into one bag and pulls out a plastic bottle of orange juice. He hands it over wordlessly, while simultaneously lifting a white Styrofoam carton from the other. There's a plastic knife and fork attached to the lid. I carefully pry it open, and as soon as the concentrated smell reaches my nose, I start drooling. Chocolate chip pancakes, cooked just the way I like them, with a little black around the edges.

"Did you get-"

He holds up a hand to silence me, as though I'm a moron for questioning him. From the first bag, he pulls out two plastic containers filled syrup, and a third with peanut butter.

"Ahhhh…" I collect the many facets of this morning peace offering, and carry them over to the bed. Contrary to what many think, I'm not an emotionally crippled human being. While expressing feelings out loud is near to impossible for me, I really have no problem recognizing them in others. Especially my little brother. I noticed the look of worried anticipation on his face when I first opened the carton. As if he thought I would actually turn down food I didn't have to go get and pay for. He's trying to make up for something he probably imagined he did, if prior experiences are anything to go by. Of course, he didn't imagine shooting me point blank in the chest with rock salt, but I think he's putting way too much emphasis on it.

I want to thank him for picking this up, but the words don't come. I could blame it on the amount of peanut butter I'd smeared on my last forkful, but that's weak, and even I know it. So instead of thinking any further on the subject, I toss the now empty carton in the garbage, and head into the bathroom after grabbing my duffel.

Ten minutes later, I'm dressed in clean clothes, I'm shaven, and my breath is minty fresh. I'm in an exponentially better mood than when I collapsed in bed the night before. Sam's sitting on his bed, channel surfing on the tiny colour TV bolted to the cabinet. The dog's got its front feet up on the windowsill, clearly enthralled with something out in the parking lot. At the sound of my feet on the floor, it turns, regards me carefully, and then just as obviously dismisses me. A chill runs down my back.

Sam shuts off the T.V., and tosses the remote down on the bed. "We hitting the road?"

I dump my duffel by the door, and glance at my watch. "Probably a good idea. Checkout's in twenty."

Sam rises from the bed, walks over to the window and glances out, interested in whatever it is that's captured the dog's attention. "I want to stop somewhere, pick up a couple of things for Spike."

I can feel my mouth opening, but manage to clamp it shut before the protest comes out. The thought of spending money on a stray dog when we don't have that much to share sounds ludicrous to me, but it is Sam's money. And my brother's like me in more ways than he cares to admit; if I make a big deal about this he's likely to dig in deeper. Instead, I focus on something that won't trigger his stubborn response.

"Spike? It has a name now?"

Sam's grin threatens to split his face in half. "Yeah. I thought of it last night. You know, like Snoopy's cousin? The one from the desert."

And yeah, like some kind of moron, I can't help but smile like that. When we were younger, Sam was maybe six when he realized that most kids didn't get their back to school clothes from the Salvation Army. Lucky for us, dad managed to find a shirt with the cousin of the much loved cartoon character on it, quieting Sam's tantrum and allaying his fears that the kids at school wouldn't like him. Surely, nobody else would have such a cool shirt. He wore that thing so many times it was unwearable after only six months of use. I still remember how shrill his cries were when dad told him we had to throw it out. I guess that shirt meant quite a bit to him if he's held onto the memory for this long.

"I like it." I turn to look at the dog, whose still at the window watching the trucks pass by on the highway. "What do you think, Spike?"

Remarkably, the dog jumps down from the windowsill and trots over to where I stand. He sits down in front of me, cocks his head to one side and chuffs gently. I feel my eyebrows rise of their own accord.

"I've never seen any thing like that before," Sam says, a hint of awe in his voice. "I guess dogs' sense of people's character isn't that good after all."

I grab a pillow off the bed to whip at him, but he's grabbed his duffel and is out the door on those freakishly long gazelle legs before I've even followed through. I can hear him laughing all the way out to the Impala.

"It's all right," I say to the dog, which remains at my feet, though it had twisted around briefly to watch Sam's harried exit. "I'll get him back when he least suspects it."

The dog continues to stare at me, cocks its head to the other side, and its tongue lolls out until it hangs from its mouth. But it doesn't pant. For all intents and purposes, it looks like it's smiling at me. It's very unsettling.

I glance out the door, making sure Sam isn't likely to come bursting back in, then crouch down in front of the dog, so we're eye to eye.

"I'm pretty sure there are doctors in this country who would have no problem committing me for doing this, hell I'm the one thinking it, and I'm doubting my own sanity." The dog continues to stare, its dark eyes intent and unmoving on my face. "But something tells me you're not just an ordinary dog. I don't know, maybe I'm just, what's the word, personifying. Maybe I want to see something more in you to make me feel better about letting you get close to Sam. Maybe all these years on the road have finally done me in, and you're just an ordinary dog having a bad day. But regardless of the implications on my mental health, I still feel it. Like you're something more, and you understand every single thing coming out of my mouth. So working on that assumption, let me tell you this. Nobody hurts my brother. And being a dog doesn't save you from that. If you do anything to hurt him, bite him, or run away, or get yourself hit by a car, I will end you. You got that?"

It sits back on its haunches, watching me that inscrutable gaze, then raises a front paw in the air. Even as I'm wondering if this is happening, if maybe I'm still fast asleep and Sam never woke me up with pancakes, I hold my own hand out. It reaches forward, slips its paw into my fingers and keeps it there for a second or two before taking it back and bounding out of the room after Sam. I'm left crouching on that filthy floor, puzzling over what the hell just happened. Sam shouts after me from outside, and it's a long minute before I get to my feet and walk out to meet him.


End file.
